


In These Hands I'll Hide

by makeupourminds



Series: Running For a Soft Place to Fall [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ableist Language, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Autism, Autistic Richie Tozier, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie helps him decompress, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Good Parent Maggie Tozier, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Ableism, Pre-Slash, References to Depression, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Whump, Richie Tozier-centric, Richie has a shut down, Richie uses ableist language to refer to himself, Self Confidence Issues, Sensory Overload, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Soft Richie Tozier, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Teenagers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Use of the R Slur, bc he's sad :(, internalized ableism?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23510206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeupourminds/pseuds/makeupourminds
Summary: In summary and in summation, Richie Tozier loves the losers and the losers love Richie Tozier right back. That being said, he doesn't think he's ever hated them more than he does right now.It's not that the rest of the losers are even doing anything more annoying than they always do. It's just that, well- Richie's not really having a good day.---Aka, autistic Richie experiences a shutdown and Eddie helps him come back aroundWritten by an autistic author
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier
Series: Running For a Soft Place to Fall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712278
Comments: 38
Kudos: 297





	In These Hands I'll Hide

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in the It fandom,, pls be kind  
> Beta'd by my lovely friend onceagainoncemore (@himbotozier on Tumblr) so please show them some love 💕  
> Title taken from Old Skin by Ólafur Arnalds  
> 

Richie loves his friends- really, he does. He shit talks and sometimes he goes too far and he loves to annoy the absolute shit out of them, but that's just the dynamic. That's his place in the group, and he's happy to play that role because it fits him. He loves them more than anyone he's ever known, without a shadow of a doubt. And they love him right back. As much as they shush him and jokingly trash on him and tell him how unfunny his jokes are, he knows they love him just as much. For every time they tell him to shut up, there's at least three times they encourage him to talk when he doesn't think he can. Every one of them can give as good as they get which, in Richie's mind, is the most important character trait one can have when dealing with someone like him. 

So, in summary and in summation, Richie Tozier loves the losers and the losers love Richie Tozier right back. 

That being said, he doesn't think he's ever hated them more than he does right now. 

Eddie's getting up in Stan's face like he always does and Mike and Bill and Ben won't stop talking over one another about this book they've all been reading- they started a mini book club together about a month ago because they're  _ really _ leaning into the whole old-man aesthetic at this point- and he's pretty sure Bev's been talking to him for a few minutes but he can't really process any of it. All he knows is that she's painting his nails and the last thing he remembers hearing her say is something about how the girl next to her in Physics is a bitch, but everything is just so  _ loudloudloud _ that he can't be bothered to tune back in. So he just resigns himself to nodding along to whatever she's saying and focusing on the way the brush spreads perfectly over his nails. She picked out a pale pink despite his initial choice of black-  _ you always look so good in light colors, Rich-  _ and he's gotta admit it looks good. Light enough that it's not too noticeable, won't draw the wrong people's attention, but barely there enough to make his boney hands look a little more elegant. He likes watching the paint bleed off the brush as it evenly coats each nail. 

It's not that the rest of the losers are even doing anything more annoying than they always do. It's just that, well- Richie's not really having a good day. He's got this English test coming up that he's going crazy over because his class is on a poetry unit and he  _ sucks _ at interpreting poetry. And of  _ course  _ they couldn't just have a multiple choice test, no no no they've gotta have a written response test about what every passage means and how the everloving  _ fuck  _ is he supposed to know what that convoluted bullshit means? And the only person he could ask for help is Bill because he's the only one of the losers that's also in AP Lit but every time he's tried to ask he gets distracted because it's Big Bill! How is he supposed to focus on homework when one of his best friends is sitting right in front of him and laughing at whatever stupid bullshit falls out of his mouth? It's impossible and he'll die mad about it. The point is that he's stressed out of his fuckin’ mind and maybe it's getting to him a little more than he initially thought.

Normally when Richie has a bad day, the best thing he can do is spend time with his friends. The losers always know how to make him feel better when he's feeling down, drag him out from the depths of his own head and give him enough of a distraction to melt the tension from his shoulders. And he doesn't know what's different about today, but something's just not working right. 

The problem is that the smell of the nail polish Bev's coating his nails in is driving him insane, scratching at the back of his throat and stinging at his eyes and it's not usually this bad, is it? And even though the touch is featherlight, he's really having to resist ripping his hand out of Beverly's grip because it feels like _too_ _much._ And why is everyone talking so loud? There's literally no reason for Bill to be shouting about his fuckin’ book when Ben and Mike are literally right in front of him, he's never that loud, why is he being so _loud_? And Eddie's voice is pitching up like he's about to start on a rant, and his voice is normally music to Richie's ears but right now he can feel the vibrations of Eddie's high tenor grating at his molars like it's trying to dig its way through his skull straight through to destroy his eardrums. 

He wants to move, needs to stim in some fashion because the amount of restless energy building up in his chest feels almost painful. He needs to jerk his head or bounce his legs or beat on his chest, he's practically vibrating out of his seat with the need of it but Beverly is  _ right there _ and holding his hand still and he really doesn't want her to catch on. 

It's not that she'll judge him or think he's weird for it. The losers, especially Bill, Stan, and Eddie, have known him long enough to know that he just does that sometimes. Only the other three of their original group explicitly knows that he's autistic, and it's not like he's keeping it a secret from the others, he just figured they probably knew by now. He knows they do their best to understand and be helpful where they can be, but as much as he loves them for trying, sometimes it just rubs him the wrong way in a way he can't really explain.

It's just that he really fuckin' hates it when one of the losers see him stimming and give him that  _ look, _ like they need to be delicate with him or he might have an "episode." In reality they've only seen him have a real meltdown once, and honestly he can't really be blamed for that one considering Eddie had just been carted away by his hysterical overbearing mother after he'd broken his arm in a fucking murder clown crack house. Besides, they'd only really seen the start of that one, his parents had dealt with the worst of it after he came home and immediately broke down screaming. He doesn't only stim when he's on the verge of losing it, sometimes he's doing it because he's happy and he needs to get the energy out or because it's the only thing helping him focus in class because  _ Fuck Calculus! _ But he doesn't really know how to tell them that without sounding like a drama queen, and besides, he's never really been good at the whole "Serious Conversation about my Developmental Disorder" thing anyhow. That's not really his place in the group, not the dynamic they're all comfortable with. Still, it does frustrate him sometimes that it's something he feels he needs to tell them. Like, shouldn't they know that by now? Don't they know him by now?

Except Eddie. He never has to tell Eddie anything, that little shit’s always three steps ahead of him. Eddie knows exactly how Richie's feeling and what to do about it before Richie does half the time. 

God, he would absolutely kill for some alone time with Eddie in that moment. That's what he needs, Eddie always knows how to pull him back to reality, if only Eddie would just shut  _ up _ -

"Rich? You good dude?" And oh shit how long has Bev been trying to get his attention? How long ago did she finish his nails? How long has he been staring down at his hands like an absent weirdo?

"Why of course, my darling Miss Marsh! I do declayuh I'm as good as ever with such a lovely young woman as yourself holdin' my hand," He lays the Voice on thick, some hideous cross between Southern Bell and British Guy that's somehow even worse on the ears than either of those two on their own. But it works, Beverly barks out a way-too-loud laugh and let's go of his hand to push him lightly on the shoulder, and even if that slight push has him wanting to crawl out of his skin at the way his hoodie briefly rubs against his shoulder, he'll grin with the best of ‘em if it means she doesn't read any further into it. And she doesn't. 

"I'm all done, whaddya think? I know you said you wanted black but what you want sucks and I feel like I made a good call on this one," She grins, scooting back a little on Bill's bed to clean up her supplies. 

"Looks great Bevvie, thanks," He beams right back at her like he means it, and he does. 

"You know the drill trashmouth, shake out your hands and don't touch shit til they're dry," She instructs as she gets off the bed, walking over to her backpack to grab something out of it. 

"Sir yes sir," He salutes dutifully at her, cracking a grin when she rolls her eyes and looks away. And this is great, he can shake his hands like a madman and he has the perfect excuse, and if any of the losers look at him funny he can just play it up for laughs until they look away. This is great, he can do this, this is wonderful. 

He shakes his hands out a little longer than strictly necessary but it's weakening that crushing weight of energy situated behind his sternum so he thinks it's a good trade off. He can feel himself becoming a little more aware, and right now he's just sitting alone on Bill's bed not really interacting with anyone but that's okay because he feels like he's finally stepping away from the edge and that's the best thing he could ask for at the moment.

He's doing great until Eddie and Stan wander closer to the bed, focused on the tail end of an argument Richie couldn't hope to catch onto. But it's alright, he's doing good, it's all good. 

It's all great until Eddie plops down way too close to him on the bed and lets out a shrill noise like he's been wounded. 

"-fuck do you mean you  _ touched it?  _ Do you know how many fucking diseases birds carry Stanley? Why the fuck would you touch an injured bird are you fucking-"

And suddenly everything's too much, too loud, too close, too bright, too much toomuch  _ toomuch _ . Richie's up and off the bed in an instant, mumbling something like "to the bathroom" when he catches Mike's questioning gaze. He's practically running by the time he makes it out of Bill's bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes he sinks to the floor, hands over his ears despite the already quiet respite of the bathroom. He's rocking back and forth, knees pulling to his chest to make him small against the too big space of everything around him. 

He knows what's happening, knows he's just overwhelmed and needed some space, but he feels like a freak, feels like a burden for causing a problem at what's just a normal fucking hang out at Bill's house no different from any other day. He knows they'd understand, knows the losers would be supportive if he asked them to quiet down or said he needed to leave, but he hates that he  _ has  _ to ask that of them, hates that he can't just be fucking  _ normal _ for once and enjoy his friend's company. And he's such a hypocrite, it's not like he's the most quiet person in the world, fuck he's by far the most annoying of any of them. And he has the audacity to need them to be quiet? Who does he think he is? 

He doesn't know how long he's sitting there when he feels more than hears someone knocking on the door pressed to his back. He tries to respond, let someone know the bathroom is occupied because he sure as hell didn't think to lock the door, but he can't get his voice to work. He can't think of anything to say, can't organize his thoughts enough to get a coherent response. All that comes out is a pitiful whimper as he jerks away from the door, scooting away from it on the floor of the Denbrough's bathroom. 

"Chee? You in there?" Comes Eddie's soft voice muffled by the door and Richie's hands still over his ears, and he could almost sob with the relief that crashes against his ribcage like a tidal wave at the sound. He still can't manage words though, just let's out another small noise and hopes it gets through the door. 

"I'm coming in, okay? Gonna open the door now," Eddie narrates gently as the handle to the door turns, and Richie scoots back to make room for it to open, powerless to do much to stop it even if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to anyways. He can't look at Eddie, doesn't wanna see the pity that crosses his face at what he's sure is a pathetic picture. Richie, almost a legal adult, sat on the floor with his hands over his ears and his knees to his chest like a child pouting over getting scolded. All 6 foot whatever of gangly limbs curled up on a bathroom floor, somehow managing to look so small like that. He feels like a child. He hates it.

"Talk to me Rich, what's goin’ on?" 

Fuck, where should he even start?

"Too much," Is all he can manage to squeak, and he hates how his voice comes out, whiney and broken and somehow still too quiet, barely there at all. Eddie doesn't say anything for a moment, and Richie cracks his eyes open just to make sure he's still there, stares at Eddie's knees where he's crouched in front of him and tries to sort out his head. 

"Shut down?" Eddie prods, and when Richie nods he stands again, "I'll be right back, alright? Just stay here, Chee," He instructs softly, turning away without waiting for a response. 

Richie thinks he can vaguely hear Eddie talking, hears Stan- maybe Bill? Who knows- talking back to him. Hears the rest of the losers talking for a second before it all goes back to silence. This isn't the first time Eddie's dealt with one of Richie's episodes, unfortunately. He and his parents have been calling them "shut downs" for as long as he can remember, because he expressed once that it felt like every system in his brain shutting down at the same time. Bill, Stan, and Eddie caught onto the term after the first time they'd seen Richie experience one and had asked him what had happened, and that had been the only way to explain it. No one's helped him through a shut down as many times as Eddie- Stan most likely coming in second- and Richie's thankful he doesn't have them as often as he used to after that godforsaken summer.

He's still rocking when Eddie comes back, kneeling down to catch Richie's eye. Eddie mimes a motion moving his hands away from his ears, and even though the arm of Richie's glasses are starting to make his ears sore pressed against his head, he grimaces at the action. He doesn't want to move his hands away, doesn't want to go back to the noise around him. It might be quieter in the bathroom, but he knows it won't be as quiet as he needs it to be. 

"Gonna take you home, alright Rich? I already got your stuff, you're okay," Eddie's muffled voice barely filters through as he grips the strap of Richie's backpack on his shoulder as evidence, standing back up and towering over Richie's hunched form, "Can you stand up for me?" 

And Richie wants to say no, wants to shake his head at the simple request because it doesn't  _ feel _ simple, doesn't feel like something he can do right now. He's simultaneously too aware of his body and completely numb, in tune with the space he's filling but somehow feeling like it's not real nevertheless. If he tries to stand up, that means he'll have to take his hands off his head, and he doesn't want to do that, can't do that, can't manage the noise without something there to stop it. And somehow, just like always, Eddie seems to pick up on that, seems to magically know what has Richie hesitating, and isn't he just so lovely like that?

Eddie digs around in Richie's backpack for a second before he pulls out his Walkman and the bulky pair of headphones he keeps in there at all times, and he grins at them like a trophy before presenting them to Richie. He murmurs something Richie can't hear before he places the headphones over where his hands are still blocking his ears, and turns on the Walkman so that music starts quietly filtering through. It's the same Rolling Stones album he always keeps in there, it's one of the few CDs he has because his car can only play cassettes so he has a far bigger collection of those. But he sees what Eddie's doing, sees the out that's being gifted to him, so he slowly removes his hands from his ears, closes his eyes for a second so as not to overwhelm himself with too many sensory details. It's low enough that it doesn't override every other noise going on around him, doesn't ambush his senses to the point that it's counterproductive. He feels himself smiling a bit, hands now freed to start flicking back and forth again so he doesn't feel the need to be rocking anymore. It's not a lot, but it's sure as hell more than he had before. Eddie gently places the Walkman in Richie's lap and let's him decide what to do with it, and he slips it into the front pocket of his hoodie without a second thought. 

Eddie makes a gesture for him to stand, and this time his hands are free and it feels a little more possible. As he stands, Eddie's hands hover near him to make sure he doesn't fall, but they never touch him which is good because Richie might spontaneously combust if Eddie touches him. 

Eddie gives him an encouraging smile when he's firm on his feet, and points over his shoulder as he starts to slowly back out of the bathroom. Richie follows him and soon they're down the stairs and in the entryway with little to no problem, and Richie has a hand against the wall to pull on his boots while Eddie sits on the floor to tie the laces of his sneakers. 

The rain beats down on the sidewalk when they finally step outside and Eddie rushes toward Richie's car with his keys in hand. Richie just stands in the rain and stares ahead but he's not really seeing any of it. He's focused on the way the rain is hitting his face, sliding over his brow and into his eyes, over the bow of his lips. It slides down his glasses in fat lines and some drops stay stationary on his lenses, so close to his eyes that they're not really clear. He feels his hair quickly getting matted to his face and the base of his neck and he turns his head up to the sky, lets it hit him dead on instead of gently colliding at an angle. It feels good to stand there with the rain beating down on him, and somewhere in the distantly aware parts of his brain he knows Eddie's probably losing his mind right now, probably trying to get him into the car so that he doesn't get pneumonia and die or something, but the thought is too out of reach for him to latch onto in any meaningful way. The pressure on his skin is light but present, licking at his being and bringing him back down in a way that a person's touch couldn't at that point. He vaguely registers the beginning of  _ Paint It, Black _ filtering through his tinny headphones.

If someone asked him to explain his headspace at the moment he doesn't know if he could. His mind is a whirlwind of contradictions and he doesn't know if he would ever have the words to accurately describe what it's like, shut down or not. His head is empty, he doesn't have any real thoughts going on, but it's more so because there's so  _ many _ thoughts going on that he can't grab onto a single one. They're all distant in a way he can't describe and he simultaneously feels numb and also like he's feeling every emotion known to man all at once. If he had to describe his headspace as a room he'd say it'd be the pool room in a 3 star hotel. Late at night with the lights off, and the only light in the room is coming from the bottom of the pool. The type of room that suffocates your thoughts but still manages to echo them back at you until they're all so layered it's just white noise and you may as well be drowning. 

"Rich? You with me?" It takes him a moment to realize Eddie's standing right in front of him, takes him even longer to process why he might be shivering. And then he remembers where they are, standing in a downpour outside of Bill's house that he just had to leave because he's losing his shit. He can't muster up enough energy to get his voice to work so instead he just stares at the space between Eddie's top lip and his nose and tilts his head to let him know he's present. The corner of his lips curve in a soft smile and he leans to try to make eye contact with Richie again, but gives up when it's clear Richie doesn't want to. 

"Could you get in the car for me? You're gonna catch a cold, Chee, we gotta get you home," Richie can tell Eddie's putting all his effort into keeping the edge out of his voice, trying to keep his anxiety at the idea of Richie getting sick at bay. Maybe that's what has Richie moving again, has him climbing into the passenger seat of his truck and wrinkling his nose at the way his hands and feet slip because of the wetness.

Apparently the cars already started, has been running for a while if the enveloping warmth in the cabin is anything to go by. If Richie was of a more solid mentality he'd have the awareness to be anxious of Eddie driving his truck. Eddie has his license and knows how to drive stick, but he doesn't drive often because of his mom and he's certainly never driven the truck before. But at the moment Richie's too focused on the way the windshield wipers are working overtime to keep the road ahead visible, squeaking a little too much in the joints because they're rusted and need to be oiled. He thinks it might make a good metaphor, if he were the type of person who were good at those. Maybe he should tell Bill about them, see what he comes up with.

Richie's house isn't far from Bill's and the drive only lasts a few minutes. Eddie's got both hands white knuckling the wheel like it'll crumble if he lets go, and Richie's hunched over rocking back and forth in his seat again. The elevated position is nice for this though, means he can rock as much as he wants and still be able to bounce his legs. He'd say it's like killing two birds with one stone, but really it's more like throwing two stones to more effectively kill one massive fuckin hawk. 

The car ride is silent on Eddie's end, the only noise filtering through Richie's ears being the rumbling of the engine and the guitar from his headphones. It's almost astonishing to him how there's so little sensory input around him and yet he still feels like he's about to claw the skin on his upper arms off where his hands are gripping his hoodie. He can feel the truck shaking under his feet, can feel the seat against his bare legs-  _ "Why the fuck are you wearing shorts with a hoodie dipshit? It's fucking cold out it's gonna rain later do you know how easy it is to get pneum-" _ -and he can hear Eddie tapping on the steering wheel. He has to close his eyes against the sheer amount of information his brain can't handle, but in general he's starting to calm down, if only a little bit.

He doesn't know when the car stopped or when Eddie killed the engine but he doesn't get time to process it before there's a gentle hand on his shoulder and it  _ hurts. _ He jerks away from the touch with a whimper and his other shoulder bumps the door because of it, which makes his hoodie rub against his skin again and he is absolutely sure in that moment that he's  _ never _ going to wear that hoodie again because  _ when the fuck did it get so scratchy? _

His hands fly to his ears and suddenly he needs everything  _ off _ , needs everything touching him gone so that he can breathe again because it's just too. Fucking. Much. His shaky hands claw at his ears until the headphones fall from their place and slip into his lap, and he quickly starts batting at the arms of his glasses until they follow suit. Normally it's easier when he doesn't have his glasses on because there's not so many fucking details to focus on, but now he's too focused on just how much he  _ can't _ see and he could almost cry at the frustration he feels because nothing's fucking working. He feels overwhelmed in that inescapable way that has his chest tightening, like a weight settled on his chest is starting to crack his ribs. He thinks he remembers a girl in third grade telling him that horses can't lay down for too long or they'll break their rib cages, and at the time he thought she was weird but in the present he thinks he knows what she was talking about. 

He knows that if he doesn't get a handle on his emotions fast that it'll turn into a panic attack, devolve quickly into something that only his parents really know how to handle, barely, something he can't possibly hope to communicate with Eddie. He focuses on his breathing, on the bouncing of his leg and the grounded feeling of the car being turned off. He recalls the breathing exercises his mom always has him do when he's overwhelmed, imagines how his mom would sound as she guided him through his breathing. Every slow breath in feels like a step back into reality, until he's fully seated in his own body again.

When he feels like he can open his eyes, he stares down at his lap, vaguely aware that the door next to him is now open. He doesn't move his hands away from his ears, doesn't make a move to put his glasses back on, but he can see a blur of color moving in his peripherals and pieces together that Eddie is standing in the passenger side doorway. He stares down at his lap and tries not to let the shame washing over him pull him under. Eddie had only been trying to help, and Richie's stupid dramatic reactions to everything are only making the situation worse. 

"Rich? Can you get outta the car for me? Gotta get you inside," Eddie's dampened voice bleeds through, unwaveringly patient and kind. It makes Richie feel worse for how stubborn and uncooperative he's being. Eddie just wants to help. Why can't he just make this less fucking complicated for once?

He musters the power to slide out of the truck slowly, paying no attention to his glasses falling out of his lap and onto the cement driveway, or the way his headphones hang out of his hoodie pocket and drag on the ground as he moves. If Richie could see, he might notice the encouraging smile on Eddie's face before he leans down to grab his friend's glasses. Richie takes the few seconds where Eddie's not looking at him to quickly tuck his headphones more fully into his pocket, shuddering at the sound of the rain falling around him in the brief moments his hands aren't on his ears. 

He moves unprompted toward his own house, watching Eddie jog in front of him to dig the spare key out from its place under a rock near the porch to open the door before Richie gets there. Whereas normally he'd stop in the entryway to toe off his boots before trudging upstairs, Richie simply moves on autopilot through the house towards the staircase, ignoring the voice in his head that sounds strangely like Maggie admonishing him for tracking mud through the house. He doesn't stop until he comes to his own room, coming to a halt in the middle of the quiet space and relishing in the fact that he's alone. Eddie seems to have hung back to take his shoes off, not having fallen into step behind Richie like he thought. 

Richie slowly lowers his hands from his ears and stares blankly into the room, arms wrapping around his torso where they irritate the skin underneath his hoodie. Every breath he takes moves the fabric, soggy and rough on his skin like fucking sandpaper. In a quick flash of anger he wrestles out of the hoodie, throwing it and the Walkman buried in its pocket against the wall near the foot of his bed with a loud  _ thwack _ . He knows that later on he'll be torn up if he just broke the CD player, but he doesn't have the presence of mind to worry about it as he kicks off his boots and shoves his waterlogged shorts off his scrawny legs.

He feels restless now, angry in a way he hadn't been previously because he just feels so fucking  _ stupid. _ He'd agreed to hangout with the losers that night because Bill promised Eddie that they'd watch a movie he'd been ranting about wanting to see all week and Eddie was so,  _ so  _ excited for it. And instead of getting to watch that movie surrounded by his best friends, Eddie had to leave to take Richie home because he's a fucking  _ retard _ and can't handle being around his friends for more than an hour without freaking out. He wants to get mad, wants to cry and throw something and pull his hair and claw at himself for ruining what was supposed to be a good day, but he can't find the energy. He uses the last of his strength to flop himself down on his bed, facing the wall as he curls around a pillow and doesn't bother to get under the covers.

He hears shuffling feet and the sound of his door closing the second he gets comfortable, knowing Eddie's finally caught up to him. He doesn't bother feeling shy about his current state of undress, it's not like Eddie hasn't seen him in nothing but his underwear countless times before. 

-Not like that. 

"I'm gonna change and I'll be right back, alright?" Eddie speaks quietly like he's trying not to startle a scared animal, and maybe that's exactly what he's going for. Richie doesn't respond, still unable to get ahold of his vocal chords, but he hears the sound of a bag rustling followed by the door closing again, and he figures Eddie didn't really need a reply. 

Richie takes the time and silence to take stock of his current emotions, figure out where he stands. He feels more present, less like he's trapped in an endless void of overstimulation. He still feels like his skin is alight, but in a less urgent way now that that Goddamn hoodie is off. His ears are ringing in the impossibly high-pitched way that makes his head twitch. The pain behind his eyes is throbbing so intensely he almost wouldn't be surprised if his head were to cave in at any moment. The lights in the room are off but the little amount of bleak daylight filtering through the window still feels like too much. He can't bring himself to close his eyes though, so instead he just stares into the blurry corner of the walls his bed is pressed against and huddles closer to the pillow he's clutching to his bare chest. 

Despite the countless number of times Richie's navigated this situation, it still feels like he has no idea what to do to calm down. He feels so many things at once and yet nothing at all. He's angry and sad and frustrated with himself and numb and so God damn exhausted that he can feel it seeping straight through to his bones, settling in the marrow and weighing him down. He's scared that his friends will be mad at him for leaving, scared of what Eddie might think of him after he all but ruined his entire weekend plans. He's terrified that nothing seems to be working and he doesn't know what to do to fix it, doesn't know if this  _ can _ be fixed, if  _ he  _ can be fixed or if he's just doomed to stay in this purgatory where his head is above water and he's still somehow drowning. He doesn't know if he needs a little bit of noise to ground him or if he needs complete silence to decompress. He can't tell if he needs to stim to stay present or if that'd cost too much energy. He feels blank in every sense of the word, completely muddled in every way. 

Mostly he's just really fucking tired.

The sound of Eddie re-entering the room disrupts any thought process he might have had going, not that there was one. Richie realizes he has no idea how long Eddie was gone. Time doesn't really feel relevant at the moment. 

"Alright, I brought some stuff with me- is it okay if I talk?" Eddie asks from across the room, not moving or making a sound until Richie nods absently. He doesn't know if the noise of someone talking will be too much for him, but he does know that he loves listening to Eddie's voice all soft and rounded like this. Richie hears his feet shuffling on the carpet as he approaches the bed, the sound of something heavy settling on the nightstand beside the bed.

"I got you some water, no ice cubes cause I know that you don't like 'em on your teeth. And I put it in a water bottle so it can't spill as easy. I'm gonna put a blanket on you, is that okay? It's the really soft one from the basement couch," Even when he's talking gently like this Eddie still speaks at a mile a minute, not that Richie would want it any other way, "I'm gonna sit on the bed now, I'll try not to touch you," He narrates as he climbs onto the bed, pulling a blanket up over Richie's torso but not quite up to his chin which he's thankful for. He tries not to think about how well Eddie has to know him to know how he drinks his water, to know that that specific blanket is the only one in the house that Richie would feel comfortable having on him right then. It's warm and plush but still lightweight, settles on the skin like a feather. It's wholly unobtrusive while still providing a comforting weight. It's everything Richie didn't know he needed. He feels his face heat as the mattress dips and Eddie silently settles in beside him. True to his word, he's not touching Richie at all. 

Eddie doesn't speak for a while after that, allowing Richie the space to exist while still knowing someone's there with him. He hears the sound of pages turning every once in a while and figures Eddie's probably reading, which makes him feel… something. Conflicted, maybe? He's happy that Eddie's not just staring ahead and waiting for Richie to be a functional person again, but it also gives him that creeping feeling that he's being babysat, even though he knows that's not what Eddie's trying to do. He tries not to think about it too much.

Every once in a while his head or arm or leg will jerk, just a product of his downright molecular inability to sit still, and he'll feel Eddie's eyes burning holes in the back of his head, like he wants to say something but is trying not to. Richie tries not to think about that too much either. 

He doesn't know how much time goes by like this until he finally breaks through his catatonia and rolls over, letting go of the pillow he'd had in a deathgrip for however long. Eddie is sitting with his back against the headboard and looks down from whatever he's reading- Richie doesn't have his glasses on and can't tell what Eddie's holding but it's probably a comic book. He doesn't let himself second guess it as he scoots forward and plops his head in the other boy's lap, bunching up the blanket to his chest in hopes of substituting the beloved pillow he abandoned. 

"Hey, Tigs," Eddie chuckles softly, making use of a nickname none of the other losers have ever or will ever know about. It's the shortened version of his mom's favorite nickname for him when he was little, Tigger, because that was his favourite Winnie the Pooh character and his mom read the books to him every night before bed. He always complains about it when she uses it now, whines that she's just trying to embarrass him when she uses it in front of Eddie, but he can't find a reason to complain after hearing it now. It tastes sweeter coming from Eddie, settling over him as warmly as the blanket from the basement couch had. Most things tend to go that way with Eddie anyhow. 

"Eugh, your hair's still wet," Eddie whines when Richie burrows further into his thighs, and he takes a moment to bathe in how astonishingly  _ normal _ that statement makes him feel. A small moment where Eddie's not being so gentle with him. It's a much appreciated break from everything else he's felt all day. 

He doesn't protest it when Eddie starts to card his hand through Richie's curled mop of hair, brushing it out of his face and behind his ear. Richie lets himself give the smallest smile at the contact, satisfied that finally  _ something  _ seems to be working to bring him back around. Eddie seems to notice, humming a happy sound in his chest as he sets his comic book down with his other hand. Richie counts the now-visible freckles on Eddie's legs and thinks about teasing him for  _ wearing shorts in this weather. _ Even in the winter Eddie insists on sleeping in shorts, would rather pile up blankets than just wear some damn pajama pants, but Richie gave up fighting with him about it years ago. 

"How're you feelin', Rich?" Eddie murmurs, patiently waiting for a response as Richie shuffles around. 

"Feel stupid," He manages to mumble a moment later, sighing and pulling the blanket up closer to his shoulders. There's no point in lying, Eddie will always catch him out in the end anyways. He still feels like he can't speak more than a word or two at a time, but he suspects Eddie knows that already. If Eddie wants to have a conversation he'll have to shoulder most of the weight, but that's never stopped him before. He gently nudges Richie's shoulder. 

"Sit up for a second," Eddie instructs after a brief pause, sliding down the bed when Richie obliges him. He slings his arm around the taller boy's shoulder and pulls him to his chest, tucking Richie's face into the juncture of his shoulder and neck and sliding his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Richie goes easily, wrapping an arm around Eddie's waist and curling his fist into the too-big shirt that he's now noticing is definitely his. He knows that Eddie's got his own clothes in the bottom drawer of Richie's dresser, knows that  _ Eddie  _ knows he has his own clothes at Richie's house. He adjusts his head against Eddie's bare collarbone and decides not to bring it up. Eddie tugs gently on the blanket until Richie relents, pulling more firmly to cover the both of them.

"You're not stupid, Rich. And I know what you wanna say, but I'm not even gonna let you think that. I call you a dumbass all the time because you  _ are _ a dumbass, but you're not stupid. This-" He gestures between them, "-doesn't make you stupid. You just got overwhelmed. That's okay. It doesn't change how smart you are."

Richie furrows his brows and makes a noise of disapproval, tightening his grip on Eddie's- his?- shirt. 

"Can't even talk," He forces out, hating how slurred he sounds despite his best efforts. He sounds as slow as he feels, a complete juxtaposition to his normal fast-paced ranting. Every word he has to force out feels like he's speaking through a mouth full of mud, thick and hard to swallow around. They bounce around in the chamber of his mouth, vibrate in his jawbone and add to his increasingly worsening headache. He bites back his own frustration at the difficulty he's having. Talking is so easy for him normally, hell, even toddlers can fucking talk! So why is it so difficult now? It shouldn't be this hard, it  _ isn't _ this hard, so surely there's something wrong with him. Okay, well, that's kind of a late observation. He  _ knows _ there's something wrong with him. His dad keeps medical records in his filing cabinet that specifically state that there's something wrong with him. Whatever. 

Laying down like this is only serving to remind him how tired he is. He fights to keep his eyes open. 

"So? That doesn't make you stupid. For the record, you're talking just fine right now. You're just tired. And probably dehydrated, I don't think I remember the last time I saw you drink actual water. How you manage to stay alive like this confuses and mildly annoys me, but whatever," Eddie follows this line of thought by reaching over to the nightstand for the water bottle he brought in earlier, handing it to Richie, "Drink some water and take a nap, naps solve, like, everything." 

Richie can't really argue with that logic- even though he's pretty sure a simple nap won't solve everything wrong with him, not like he hasn't tried- so he sits up enough to drain half of the water bottle Eddie brought him and tries not to let any of it dribble down his chin. He fails quite miserably at that, a not-insignificant amount of water dripping onto his still bare chest, but none of it gets on Eddie so the other boy sits silently until the bottle is handed back to him. He sets it back on the nightstand as Richie settles back into his chest, bringing his fist up to gently tap at Eddie's breastbone. 

"Not mad?" He all but whispers, and maybe he's pushing his luck because Eddie really has every right to be mad at him, but the validation would be nice.

"At you? No. At Stan? A little. I mean, did you fuckin hear what he said? He picked up an  _ injured bird _ , Rich, do you know how gross that is? Do you know how many diseases you can get from just  _ touching _ a bird? I mean that's fucking crazy, you can't just-" Eddie catches himself when he feels Richie tap a little more aggressively on his sternum, and he lets out a harsh breath to recenter himself before he continues, softer, "Whatever. No, I'm not mad at you, Richie. I'll never be mad at you for needing help, you know that."

Richie feels a little bit more stupid that he didn't know that. 

"Promise?" 

"I promise, Chee. Get some rest." 

There's a beat of silence before-

"Stay."

Richie doesn't have to wait for the response.

"Of course."

Richie closes his eyes, finally. If he feels Eddie press a kiss to the top of his head, neither of them mention it. And if Richie responds with a featherlight kiss to Eddie's collarbone, they don't mention that, either.

* * *

It's a little past 8 o'clock at night when Maggie Tozier finally walks through the front door of her house. She smiles softly as she unzips her raincoat, turning her head towards the light she can see pouring from the kitchen. 

"Went? Is that you?" She calls, reaching down to untie her work shoes before she slips them off. 

"Yup, in here!" He responds a moment later, followed immediately by the sound of him cursing quietly as metal clangs to the floor. Maggie laughs quietly to herself as she makes her way to the kitchen, leaning in the archway to watch her husband hurriedly pick up the pans that he dropped. 

"What are you doing destroying my kitchen?" She teases, grinning when he stands with a click of his knees and crosses the room to give his wife a welcome home kiss. 

"Well I  _ was _ trying to find the strainer so I could wash some strawberries I bought, before I was so rudely interrupted," He lovingly rolls his eyes as he turns to go back to his searching, "How was work?"

"Well Carol in budgeting is still up my ass, so same as always I suppose," She sighs, looking toward the staircase, "Did Rich come home early? I saw his truck in the driveway, but I thought for sure he'd stay over with Bill tonight," She wonders with furrowed brows. Richie's been spending at least one night a weekend at the Denbrough residence for as long as she can remember. The only time he doesn't is when something's gone wrong. She swallows down the worry crawling its way up her throat. 

"Yeah, I saw that too," Went glances over his shoulder with a look that means he shares her anxiety, "Haven't heard anything from his room though. Maybe you should check on him? See if he's getting hungry?" 

"I'll be seriously worried if he's not, that boy's a black hole," Maggie laughs lightly as she turns away, listening to Wentworth's quiet chuckle as she makes her way to her son's room.

It's dead quiet behind the door when she comes to stand in front of it, and that doesn't necessarily make her feel any better. She knocks quietly but firmly, waiting a few seconds for a response before trying the handle. It turns easily, which puts her a little more at ease. 

"Rich, sweetie? Everything alright in here?" She speaks softly as she pokes her head into the room, worry melting away at the sight in front of her. Richie lay with his head on Eddie's chest, sound asleep tangled up with the other boy. She's pretty sure she recognizes the blanket covering the both of them as the one that's usually thrown over the back of the couch in the basement, and she knows instantly what that means. She watches Eddie stir a bit as he comes to, rubbing his eyes and looking over toward her. His face flushes red when he sees her in the doorway. Maggie smiles. 

"Uh, hi, Mrs. Tozier," Eddie greets awkwardly, voice hushed so as to not disturb the still sleeping boy curled around him. 

"Hi Eddie. Is everything okay? I thought you two would be staying with Bill tonight," She repeats her concerns, watching contently as Eddie runs a hand through Richie's knotted curls. 

"We're okay. Rich just got a bit overwhelmed earlier so I took him home, that's all. I think he's just had a long week," Eddie explains through a yawn, looking himself like he's fighting hard not to fall back asleep. 

"Oh my poor Tigger," Maggie coos as she crosses the room, perching on the edge of the bed next to Eddie and cupping her son's cheek, "Do you think he had a shut down?" She figures she already knows the answer, given the presence of the only blanket Richie will curl up in when he's been through the wringer, but she could be wrong. She's not, but she could be. 

"Oh, uh, yeah. I don't really know what happened at Bill's but he went to the bathroom and didn't come back for a while so I went to check on him and, well, you know. He wasn't doing great. Um, I got him to drink some water before he fell asleep but he hasn't eaten anything. Couldn't talk much when we got back so I figured I'd better let him sleep," Eddie reports dutifully, gazing down at Richie as he goes, "Guess I fell asleep too." Maggie hums at that, brushing a stray curl out of Richie's face. He makes a noise of content and buries his nose further into Eddie's chest. 

"Well, let me know when he wakes up and I'll order us all some pizza, alright?" Maggie offers as she stands, "Are you staying the night honey?" 

"Uh, I'd like to, if that's okay with you," Eddie responds politely. Maggie chuckles and ruffles his hair lovingly, watching him flush and scramble to fix it despite its already sleep ruffled state. 

"You know it's always okay with us. I'll call your mom and let her know," She hates the idea of having to speak to Sonia, but after all these years she's learned how to placate the woman at very least. Eddie smiles tiredly up at her, closing his eyes and nosing at Richie's hair. 

"Thanks Mrs. Tozier," Eddie mumbles as Richie shifts around with a small sigh.

"Anytime, Eddie," She replies before closing the door on the boys, smiling as she makes her way back downstairs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay wow here we are!! It's autism acceptance month and I LOVE the headcanon of autistic Richie so of course I had to write some of him. I've also been craving Richie whump the past week and have had a shutdown or two myself recently, so this was a lovely outlet for all of those things.  
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated!! Please give any feedback you can think of, I'd love to know what people thought of this :) maybe if people really like it I could make it a small series with oneshots about autistic Richie?? Let me know!!  
> And maybe consider followin me on Tumblr @ theworstkinda for more reddie content 💕 I hope you enjoyed!!


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